


all we have to say

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cake is obligatory, Gen, John is a Mess, Making Up, Neither of them are great with feelings, Post-The Lying Detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 11:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: 'Ilike you, you know.'





	all we have to say

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this a couple of weeks ago and had to write it down. Unbeta'ed, so feedback is appreciated.
> 
> I do not own Sherlock; I'm just borrowing the boys. Nothing to warn for apart from the obvious spoilers and a little bit of swearing. Takes place after the hug scene in 221b. :)

* * *

 

 _‘I_ like you, you know.’

John murmurs the words when they’re alone with Rosie in the cake shop, Molly having left them briefly to pop to the bathroom (her eyes glancing between them with the smallest slip of her tongue over her lips, as though fearful to leave them alone, but John had made a point of smiling blandly at her, nodding at her just slightly, but pointedly; _it’s fine, I promise not to deck him while you’re gone_ and so she had wandered away down the parlour, with the smallest, noticeable glance over her shoulder as she went).

Sherlock doesn’t quite understand the relevance of that, so quiet are the words, John peering into the little teapot on their table as though expecting to see an undiscovered _Doctor Who_ episode in there, or somesuch, very pointedly not looking at him. Rosie is banging happily in her high-chair; surrounded by crumbs; she’s sampled chocolate, she’s sampled coconut, she’s sampled red velvet – quite frankly, she’s having a wonderful day. She won’t sleep much tonight but after sticking to a rigorous routine of bath, bed, dash her around to friends, work and then same again, Sherlock can tell John won’t mind the shakeup to the routine, just this once.

He’s been trying to avoid thinking about him, Sherlock can tell. It’s not egotistical, if it’s true.

‘I do.’ John looks up when he receives little more than a polite, questioning ‘hm?’ in response. ‘I like you.’

 _Well, of course you do,_ Sherlock thinks. Why else would John save him from bad people, after all? The cabbie – or rather, Jeff Hope, but always known to them as the cabbie; Jim Moriarty (okay, John didn’t save him exactly, but points for effort and it had touched Sherlock somewhere, down deep in his bones) and Culverton Smith.

‘I thought you were just being moral,’ he quips, attempting to keep the mood light as he sips his tea. John smiles a little at that, but it’s vague, just a slip over his face and then gone. It leaves Sherlock troubled; sad.

‘This… person…’ He says the words carefully, so carefully; leaning forwards on the table as they face each other across it. Sherlock grips the delicate tea-cup; it’s bone china, with roses painted on the side, only the very best for the customers here. They’ve had to keep it firmly away from Rosie’s sticky paws, though and he’s settled for letting her yank at his fingers instead.

(Though the sheer loveliness of having her hand back in his again is beyond compare).

‘Whoever it was who came around to your flat,’ John puts an elbow to the table – manners, not that Sherlock cares – lets his hand rub the back of his neck, ‘This – whoever it was you _believe_ you met.’ He’s trying to be kind about it; trying to keep an open mind but it’s the best way he can bridge over the chaos of the last few weeks and they both know it.

‘Yes.’ Sherlock nods once because there was _someone,_ he knows there was. Not even he could imagine eating two loads of chips. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any evidence; Mycroft’s cameras were for some strange reason not on the companion who had given him the reason to leave his flat in the first place, and he can still feel the shape of her arm in his, the shape of the cane that he held for her, being her physical support in the way he had never done for John and was now no longer allowed to do.

‘…Okay.’ John lets that slide. ‘You said… she liked you.’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock nods again because she seemed to. Because she spent the whole night walking London with him and she was only ever the second person to do that with him in the whole of his life. The woman who smiled glibly, casually and unkindly at him (shreds of his life at University in that look as she stared at him like he was an unseen alien) down in that room in the hospital, her unfamiliar hands gripping a different cane that he had never held for this particular woman he _knew_ he hadn’t met – it wasn’t _her._

But _someone_ had come. Someone with a different vendetta.

‘I think she did.’ He finds himself smiling a little, a tilt of the lips. ‘She made me laugh. I.’ He swallows the rest of the sentence down, _I hadn’t laughed in weeks, or if I did I don’t remember;_ John raises his eyebrows, maybe he can hear that for himself. Sherlock grabs his napkin, wipes his mouth, his chin, dabs the moment away.

‘Still. Gone now.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe she’ll come back. But. She was nice. I think she was nice? Yes, she was. She was nice.’

John leans across to stare at the menu, even though he’s probably full from two helpings (he’s been quite hungry, too). ‘You said you had chips,’ he says the words unwaveringly, clipped on the word ‘chips.’ Seeking something – potentially disapproving?

‘And ketchup.’ Sherlock makes a mocking little ‘jazz hands’ gesture and John’s shoulders lift.

‘Was that the first time you’d eaten in weeks?’

‘Hm.’ Sherlock considers it; good question, that.

‘Must have been.’ He shrugs finally; he can go weeks without eating after all, and John knows that. John lifts his head, face carefully blank. Lifts the teapot they have on the table and without a word, pours more into Sherlock’s cup.

‘Right.’

‘Thankyou.’ Sherlock finds another smile for him as he samples the fresh tea, mostly to kill the odd silence. Why, he wonders, is John asking him these strange questions? He’s looking at Sherlock, arms crossed, but he seems to be searching for something else; something he’s not saying. It’s a look that Sherlock knows well.

‘Because you know that I like you, right?’ The admission comes as quickly as John’s hand, which unravels itself to point at him and Sherlock is taken aback. There’s something in John’s voice that sounds defiant. _Sulky,_ even and he opens his mouth to reply; John cuts across him. His hand is trembling.

‘Yeah, I know.’ John lays his hand flat on the table. ‘I know – what I did was. _Bad._ ’ He meets Sherlock’s eyes as he says it. ‘Really bad. I’m not trying – you know. Justify it. Just – bollocks to this.’ He throws himself backwards in his chair and puts a hand over his eyes, rubbing them. ‘Sorry,’ he adds, belatedly remembering his daughter and the fact that he’s meant to set a better example than this. She’s stopped banging the chair, has crooked her neck to gaze at him, at her father’s barely-concealed distress. And, possibly, envy.  

 _No-one’s ever been envious over me before,_ Sherlock thinks stupidly, even as John’s hand shoots across the table and shakes a little before planting itself over Sherlock’s own, the one he had settled next to his teacup saucer.

‘What I did – it was awful,’ he tells him. ‘And I can’t. I haven’t,’ he adds, his eyes wide and blue and very, very sorry and Sherlock shakes his head. John can’t undo the bruises, but he’s been treating them with care ever since. Mycroft is furious, Lestrade is fuming, Mrs Hudson is quietly disapproving and Molly looks dearly as though she wants to break a chair on John’s head.

But. John is _here._ He’s brought Sherlock out for his birthday; has told him his secret; let the man hold him. No-one would ever let Sherlock hold them and anyway, he never would.

 ‘Just… the way you said it,’ John presses. ‘How you described her – you sounded surprised that she could. You just… you sounded like a kid.’ He glances towards Rosie; so does Sherlock. ‘And I didn’t – I didn’t like that. I know, I – what I did, just a few minutes later. It’s unforgivable. But I never – Rosie and me,’ John clears his throat. ‘We love you, Sherlock. I…’ He huffs.

 _‘I_ love you, Sherlock,’ he says it finally, lets it go, lets it fill the table-space. ‘I couldn’t – I didn’t hate you. I was just. Angry. _Very_ angry,’ he adds and that gets a smile out of Sherlock, who’s sitting completely still.

‘I know,’ Sherlock murmurs because after all, John did save his life a few days ago. The sight of him, angry and protective and there, standing in front of Sherlock’s bed and shoving Culverton Smith away, was a memory that stayed with him long into the night, was the thing that finally allowed him to close his eyes without the help of morphine or sedation and left him, finally, able to just sleep.

‘…You’re not going to do the thing again, are you?’ John asks, finally, awkwardly. His hand is still clasped warmly over Sherlock’s; it hasn’t moved. It’s rather nice actually; the solid weight of a palm that handles guns and cleans wounds, not damp or unpleasant. Just warm. Steady. The same knuckles that sent Sherlock sprawling – the same ones now trying to comfort him. ‘The staring, I mean?’

‘The scary thing?’ Sherlock grins, deeply amused. How well John knows him by now, it seems and John grins back and they’re chuckling there together, under the eyes of a bemused daughter and goddaughter.

Who then chooses that moment to throw her rattle at Sherlock with a resolute cry of ‘Deh!’ _Shut up and notice me, please._

‘Thankyou,’ Sherlock says, graciously, plucking the rattle up out of his lap. His and John’s hands come apart; John’s palm lingers on the table as he watches Sherlock give Rosie back both the rattle and yet another lecture on how to keep it, a needless murmur that fills the silence after that.

‘Molly’s been in the loo for a long time,’ he says finally, glancing around, the fourth member of their party suddenly conspicuous by her absence and pressing need to make conversation as if fearing a lingering awkwardness between them.

Without looking around, Sherlock tells him, ‘She’s hiding on the other side of that pillar in another booth. She’s watching us to make sure we’re not having an argument.’

‘Oh.’ John nods and glances to his right. Sherlock watches him spot the shape of her, a nervous-looking jumper bolting shyly out of his sight. Poor Molly; poor, gracious long-suffering Molly. An absolute treasure to John; if Sherlock couldn’t be there, he’s glad someone was.

‘Cheers, then.’ John raises his cup and Sherlock raises his and they clink them together, delicately. ‘Happy birthday, Sherlock.’ He smiles, as kind as his palm was, as _careful_ as his palm was, over Sherlock’s knuckles.

‘John.’ Sherlock says the name as he brings his own cup to his mouth and waits for John to look at him. ‘I do, too.’

Then he winks and drains his tea.

*


End file.
